


The Sherlock Diet

by sherlockstummy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Diet, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/sherlockstummy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High summer in London. The air conditioner is broken, John's upset about gaining weight, and Sherlock is a lazy arse. Also, Sherlock knows diets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sherlock Diet

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not medically accurate! Just know that before you read.

“That won’t go away on its own,” Sherlock mumbled drowsily from the couch. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even, so John had thought the detective was asleep.

“What?” John asked.

“The weight you’ve put on.” Sherlock replied as if it was obvious. Though his tone held the prideful life that it usually had, his voice was languid and sleepy. “It won’t go away by magic just because you’ve been to the gym.”

“Yes, all right!” John snapped, feeling sensitive both about his weight gain and the fact that Sherlock seemed to be following his mental process. “I know that! I’m a doctor!”

Sherlock gave a short, sleepy chuckle. “You really must stop throwing that adage around. It won’t explain everything, you know.”

John fell into his armchair. “I give up.”

“I don’t see how you care, anyway,” Sherlock went on (because that’s what he did, naturally). “You’re in perfect health, and the weight is perfectly normal. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could just sweat it off from sitting in Baker Street for an hour.” 

True enough, for it was high summer, overly hot and humid, and to top it all off, the air conditioning in Baker Street had broken last week, and brownouts all over London had stopped any repairmen from coming. Of course His Stroppiness would make a huge fuss. It was all John could do to convince him to put on pants!

Mercifully, Sherlock was dressed today. Or, at least, a semblance of dress. He had on a cotton wife beater (and political correctness be damned!) and a pair of kaki shorts which decidedly made him look very much unlike Sherlock, whose normal summer attire looked more like golfer’s clothing. John couldn’t really blame him. After taking a warm shower, he’d only bothered to put on a tee shirt and a pair of thigh-length boxers, even though he was more acclimatized to heat than Sherlock because of Afghanistan.

Ever since the central air broke, Sherlock refused to move. He stayed still and listless on the couch, mostly sleeping or reading, which left John free to move about and go outside. It had also given him the freedom to deal with his…problem.

“Yer, well…” John poked his stomach where the beginnings of a pot belly advertised itself to the world. He frowned, as if his weight gain was all his stomach’s fault. “In any case…Sherlock, what’s that?”

This was in response to Sherlock holding up what at first appeared to be a short black stick. However, with a flourish of his hand and a quick snap of his wrist, Sherlock revealed an elegant lady’s fan and quickly put it to use. It was the most John had seen Sherlock move for a week, and he was startled.

Sherlock peeped one eye at him. “It’s a fan.”

“Yer, I can see that,” John half-laughed. “The question is, why do you have it?”

“Good weapon.” Sherlock replied with a lazy yawn. 

“That thing? You’re kidding.” John scoffed. “It looks like something straight out of 1840.”

“Replica.” Sherlock corrected. “Cheap plastic, this. Good weapon, though.”

“How so?”

“When timed just right,” Sherlock quickly moved the open fan in front of his chest and snapped it closed right at the base, “you can stop a knife.”

John gave him an incredulous look. 

“I mean it,” Sherlock half-whined. “Only small, light knives, mind you, but as that’s the typical knife of choice these days, it comes in handy.”

John snickered. “It’s black lace, Sherlock. It looks like it should belong to a widowed grandmother, not a 31 year old consulting detective.”

Sherlock stopped fanning himself and turned the fan between his fingers. “Mm. Good weight. Nice and light. Versatile.” He began fanning himself again with a satisfied sigh.

John rolled his eyes. “That won’t help you any, you know. You’ll only make yourself hotter.”

Sherlock snapped the fan closed. “And what would you suggest, doctor?” There was full malice in his voice as he looked at John, and the former soldier knew he’d picked the wrong battle.

“Uh…ice cream? I haven’t seen you eat in days.”

Sherlock’s features softened and he turned his head back towards the ceiling, closing his eyes as he stretched gracefully. “Mm. I’ll be okay for a bit.” He waved his hand languidly. “Besides, digestion will surely overheat my body at this point.”

“Suit yourself.” John sighed and went back to staring accusingly at his belly.

“I could help you, you know.”

John looked up suspiciously. “Help with what, exactly?”

Sherlock smiled. “Dieting, of course.”

“Sherlock, starving yourself for days on end and then eating when you can’t take it anymore is not dieting. It’s the exact opposite of dieting, in fact.”

“I know that.” Sherlock said dreamily. “Just because I can rely on a strangely high metabolism doesn’t mean I don’t know how to diet properly.”

“Really?” John asked curiously. He really wanted to know. For all his binging on sweets and takeaway, it was clear from the lean, secretly muscled body that Sherlock Holmes had never touched so much as an article about dieting.

“You forget that Mycroft,” Sherlock soured slightly at the mention of his brother, “has tried all varieties of diets and I, of course, have observed.”

“You don’t seem to think his diet is working.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” Sherlock replied simply. “If you were to ask Mycroft, he could tell you the ideal diet, as can I. But the Holmes are famous for their vices. Mine was drugs, a habit which I’ve kicked. Mycroft’s is something far more tame, and something that plagues many citizens the world over.”

“Sweets.” John laughed. “I’d say you’ve taken up your brother’s vice.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock mused thoughtfully, his fingers steepling under his chin. “Just because I won’t diet-though that’s mostly to spite Mycroft more than for any other reason-doesn’t mean I couldn’t easily shed ten pounds in a week.”

“Ten pounds?”

“Easy.”

“All right, Mr. Confident,” John leaned forward. “Teach me.”


End file.
